mnvnjnsn's Diary

To contact send email to mnvnjnsnATSIGNgmailDOTcom.



Forgive me father, for I have cinnabonned

Look up "bad diabetic" in the dictionary and there'll be a picture of me looking like I am today-- a saggy, pale beast with hair that does not bounce back well after a hat, shaky hands and vapid gaze, smelling vaguely of Skittles (what- your dictionary isn't scratch and sniff? Ah, well-- it's for the best.)

If you've been a diabetic since you were ten, like me, you are a catholic diabetic-- everything you do is a sin, and you will be punished.

And here is where that other tragedy of the early eighties comes in to really fuck with your head. See, your father was adamant that diabetes would not ruin his daughter's life, so he ruled that daughter's life with an iron fist, when he could. And then he died. So now you associate testing your blood sugar with lying to your father, who's dead now, and so you don't test your blood sugar.

And the calculator in your head that you use to figure your cupcake to insulin ratio has been skewed, so you view eating anything that tastes good as being blood sugar raising and, therefore, bad. And, because you're stuck at twelve, rebelling against your dead father, you don't take into account that your craving for sugar might be because your blood sugar is low.

And so you ride your blood sugar down the into madness-- literally!-- where you sit and stare at the piles of paper you've created on your desk but you don't know why, and you start narrating your confusion in your head using the voice of the sixteenth-century English lawyer who is narrating the book you've been reading and every sentence you-- or he-- says gets longer and more convoluted and you still don't understand why you're sweating like a hockey player when it's snowing outside.

(And it is snowing outside, even though you're in Portland, where it doesn't normally snow. All the weather people keep getting it wrong-- freezing rain, no-- snow flurries, but they won't stick, no-- half a foot of snow with lots of ice, no-- just rain. C'mon, people, what's that meteorology degree for anyway?!??)

And then you finally figure out that you're about to pass out, and you eat 15 glucose wafers like they're orange-flavored bodies of christ and you finally come to, sweaty, confused and with a serious headache, and you're back to being a bad diabetic, because my god, you've had this for twenty-five years, can't you just eat a full breakfast for once?

3:43 p.m. - 2005-12-19


previous - next

latest entry

about me





random entry